


Knowledge

by Emeka



Series: mega-fucked stuff [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Breeding, Brother/Brother Incest, Cuntboy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Extremely Dubious Consent, Extremely Underage, Father/Son Incest, Grandfather/Grandson Incest, Harems, Infanticide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Murder, Rape, Romanticized Abuse, Romanticized Incest, Stockholm Syndrome, mentioned - Freeform, sexually aggressive minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2019-11-03 17:43:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17882318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/pseuds/Emeka
Summary: The kingdom's eldest prince came home and made himself king....then home-grew himself a harem.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Extra reminder there is a lot of not-so-good stuff here, and a good chunk of it is not treated as bad or punished in anyway. If you are like me, you may be reassured that however the author knows this shit is awful and does not think of it as any goal for irl relationships.
> 
> That author awareness is all the difference for me between enjoying a gruesome rape-murder fic with an author who knows what's what, and feeling angry at an abusive relationship that the author espouses as an ideal romance.

The kingdom's eldest prince came home and made himself king. It was not a silent coup, as bloodless as such things can be; poison, a technicality of blood, or foreign support. He made himself king with blood, with his father, mother, sisters, and several of his brothers. Sundry other family members, primarily cadet cousins, were imprisoned to be married off.

He remained the only of his immediate family beside six younger brothers, and the only one of the bunch possessing a cock and balls. For them he broke their existing betrothals, and of them he made a harem.

The first he took upon returning home before anything else. Nineteen years old, three below his own, and a proud beauty who was due to the next day to go abroad to be wed. Perhaps that was the catalyst? Either way, he unlocked the door to his room and crept to him in his bed, and stroked his long blonde hair until he started awake.

"Ares?" he mumbled, eyebrows knitting. "What are you doing here?" And then, "what are you doing _here_?" Then he struggled as the king-soon-to-be tore off his blankets, but all the pride in the world did not make him strong.

His pretty cunt was easily won and claimed, and toward the end began to respond. It would have been simple to bring him off, but the king-soon-to-be left him full of tears, pleasure, and his seed, the better to humble him.

The second he took after the murder of their parents, spattering them both with the blood on his hands. This one was seventeen, raven-haired, and of a good-hearted disposition, with a pious heart. He put up less of a fight, but it wasn't satisfying either, to take him as he prayed with his eyes closed. He was ignoring him.

So the king-soon-to-be made himself impossible to ignore. He fucked him as slow and tender as any virgin might wish, played with his clit, and sucked on his pink nipples. His little brother's voice grew sweeter with desperation in what must have been for him a slow tortuous descent to orgasm. At the complete end, he quit his praying altogether and could only half-moan a warbly, drawn-out 'no' as his cunt plastered them both and the bed in his juice.

The king-soon-to-be washed and went to his sisters' suites one by one. The youngest, a few months old, he killed in her nursery bed with her nursemaid.

He went to the third, and found that he woke with a sweet sleepy smile and willingly spread legs. Fifteen years this one, with a sick infatuation that belied his angelic appearance.

"I've wanted this for so long," he whispered, nails dragging across his back. "It's all I've _ever_ wanted. My strong, handsome big brother and his cock." 

The king-soon-to-be was not surprised by this. Indeed, he had suspected since the boy was at least nine. Beyond that he felt nothing other than a vague pleased sensation that one of them actively desired him. Since he had planned to have them all, how they felt about it did not really matter.

His little brother begged him to fuck a baby in him, knock him up, and he did his best, but he would have done it regardless.

Next the king-soon-to-be disposed of the brothers he had no use for, anyone with a cock of his own, that he could not breed. Two, plus a pair of identical twins, and one-half of a fraternal pair. The other half (thirteen, boyishly handsome) he raped beside his brother's corpse and drove mad.

Any other member he had no intention to breed or kill he claimed his right as king to have locked away. While it was all a sad thing, a cruel thing, a _tyrannical_ thing, he was still the next to rule, and his men bound to obey. As his cousins were all awoke and dragged away, he sent for his fourth brother, and celebrated by his kinghood by consummating his throne. This one, only ten, cried in bewilderment from all the goings-on, the barely-grasped death of his family, and the penetration that left his thighs bloody and smeared with white.

Throughout the night the new king worked and wrote letters. Likely he had factored his kingdom's great size and strength into his actions, but so many broken engagements (if not the monstrousness of his actions) would upset many other kingdoms. He wrote appeasing proposals of new betrothals, new trades and gifts, and in the early morning congratulated himself on his hard work by seeing his next brother.

This brother had a good idea by now of what had happened, and struggled and screamed as hard as he could. Being eight, it was not a great deal. The new king showed some measure of mercy and licked him wet and quivering before taking him. He was slow, careful, until his brother came and his squeezing cunt coaxed him into ejaculating. It was easy to take his time without the exciting spark of possible impregnation. Very little boys were not to his interest, but in the beginning of his rule it was important to keep them all in line.

The new king napped and refreshed himself to see his public. A few choice corpses he brought out to hang, his father and some of the older boys. The girls and the children would inspire too much outrage. As it was--as he explained--there was no one left, and nothing would change for them. It was what they wanted to hear, after all. Leave the royalty to their awful political games and go about their day. He had no interest in them, or of being an awful king specifically. In time this would just be one of those things that you know happened, but don't personally mean much. Like a tragedy halfway across the world.

All that was left was the last brother. This one was a mere six years old, heartsick with grief and incomprehension that left him limp as a ragdoll the entire time. But his virgin blood marked the last of the first generation of his harem.

His third little brother, the infatuated one, caught first but the new king spends so much time with them that all the older ones were quickly impregnated. By the time the younger ones are ready, there are already tots stumbling around.

They are all, brothers and children, cordoned off into their own part of the castle as a group. Maids tend to their needs and cleaning, but both sides are forbidden to interact socially. The king's first little brother's firstborn, he raises as his own heir. It is the only one to have regular contact with the outside world as well as an actual education, and the only child living with a cock. Any other is suffocated in its bed--the king does not relish doing it, but he will not keep a useless child. 

As a whole they adapt well to their new positions in life. The survivor of the fraternal pair eventually wastes away, unfortunately, following only a few pregnancies. The pious second grows increasingly anxious until he consistently miscarries; the fruit of incest is rotten, he insists, but the king knows it has more to do with his bad nerves. But the others settle into their life, and the children grow up knowing nothing at all to be strange.

When they are old enough they give themselves over happily to their father. They number twenty in this generation, twenty fertile little boy cunts. His own brothers are still of a breeding age and good to fuck but they are essentially retired from receiving his semen in favor of seeding the little ones.

The third brother's first son introduces the third generation with a properly-equipped baby boy. 

Ismene grows into his childhood innocent of anything worldly. He loves his fathers, all his uncles and siblings. He loves the group baths they take, naps after the afternoon tea, his dollies. Life is love for him. Life is breeding. There is no desire for anything else, no need. His entire life he has known the scent of milk and clean baby skin, swelling bellies and childbirth.

He knows he is not old enough to be a real part of all that yet. But he dreams about it, fantasizes, and watches whenever anyone else has their turn in bed with father. He and his siblings touch each other sometimes, and the father who birthed him and his father put their mouths on his sex every night to help him sleep. Orgasms aren't unknown to him, but everyone seems to enjoy father so much more.

And father has that part that is unique to him, mysterious to Ismene. It's so different from theirs. But the name is similar, staccato, a cock to his cunt; made for each other, like the way it's outside and big, while theirs are small and inside.

Sometimes he pulls apart his vulva to look at his pink inner lining. One day he'll have father in there. If he thinks about it hard enough, he sees himself getting redder and wet.

He has essentially always known father will breed him. But the event that really threw it all into focus was one that occurred when he was six.

An older sibling by two years had recently 'grown-up', a term he understood even then to mean fertility. Eight was unusually early for growing-up, but not impossible. The older sibling was irritable for a few days and that was all, far as he knew.

A few weeks later he agreed to play blocks with him ('growing up' apparently put him above toys). He even looked a little different. His cheeks were beautifully flush, and his eyes reflected more light. Ismene found his grown-up brother to be strangely, suddenly vibrant, more colorful. 

They replicated furniture, people, sculptures. Neither had ever seen a building or tower before, but still enjoyed seeing how high they could build until it fell over. They just didn't have a word for what they made.

Father came striding in with a purpose. It wasn't unusual to see him in this area, but he rarely came over to the baby rooms. Ismene barely gave him a glance. He didn't look like he wanted to linger, and his brother kept trying to poke his pieces out of place.

Father did not pass right by them. He pulled up brother's infant gown from behind and pushed forward--into?--and brother yelped, tip-toeing. His hand jolted out into his line of blocks, sending them scattering.

Ismene watched with interest, absently lifting a foot to avoid the now mutual avalanche. Father fucked him hard and quick, and brother's yelpings soon smoothed out into long wordless moans. Even his eyes rolled up.

It was an arousing scene, but not new. Not until brother squirted several loads of come down over his thighs, spattering the floor. That made him hot. His slit got wet when he felt good, and the better he felt, the wetter he got, finishing in the small expulsion during climax. He had never seen it jet out like that, and so much! He could not comprehend how good that meant his brother felt.

He touched himself, forcing through the sensitivity of his clit, wanting to feel like that, wanting to wet himself, hoping father would take him next even if he wasn't grown-up. He came as father did, burying himself deep with a grunt, as his brother did, screaming and squirting so _much_ , and he felt good but not, he realized with a wave of frustration, good enough. He wet his palm and that was all.

Ismene tried everything he could think of for the next year to persuade father into fucking him. But father has had no interest in any kind of touching him, even when he tried to bribe him with his dessert cakes and cookies.

All the while, he thirsts away.

And does not give up entirely. One night in his eighth year he slept in bed with his parents, ignored as they had sex and then fell asleep. He studied father for some time, liking how stoic he looked in such a vulnerable state. Sitting up, he carefully peeled the blanket back and zeroed in on his cock. Even flaccid it looked enormously thick.

He carefully balanced on his father's pelvis, trusting in his light bones to not wake him up. Cockflesh pressed against his clitty-button and spread open his vulva. Softness against softness. Each little tilt and stirr of the hips drew them even closer together. With a little more weight, his hands on father's stomach, it felt like a solidening beam of heat.

His insides felt all gooey. The more he moved, fucking himself more along than on his father, the more his pussy got gooey too, and father followed suit. His pussy left his cock all wet and shiney.

Being all messy felt amazing... his pussy burned, and he's close. And because he's so wet, so good, he just knew that _this_ time he'd overflow.

At the apex he was thrown over onto his back. He was stunned for a moment--what happened? He sat up to see father doing the same, and looking down at him with a bemused look.

"That's a first," he said. "But don't." 

He turned away, already inserting himself into the body next to him. It was agony to see his cock being put to work on someone who wasn't even awake to appreciate it, after it had made itself so well-acquainted with his pussy.

Ismene struggled. Father was--is-- an absolute authority figure in his life. But it wasn't fair. He wasn't even asking for an actual fuck. He tried timidly to kiss his neck and pull him back, but father rebuffed him again with an elbow. It didn't really hurt, but he curled up in the pillows and cried to himself.

That humbled him. Even if he could get father hard, he'd just use it on someone to breed with. He still wasn't a grown-up. A feeling of glum acceptance followed him for a few weeks, but there was always some way to occupy himself. It got easier to wait.

On the morning of his tenth birthday, he finally grew up. The long-awaited event both scared and excited him. His whole body had been aching lately, and at night, if he laid awake and listened inside himself, it was like he could feel his womb opening up. His older brothers were proud of him, kissed his cheeks until they felt raw, and told him it would be a bit still before father would take him. He had to reach the right time of his body's cycle--and because he was young, and irregular, it might be difficult to get him pregnant at first.

That was all icing on the cake. Ismene would be happy to have a baby, of course, but that is an immediate second to father.

He waits in a hot sweat. Every night he wonders if this will be the one. Every time he's playing with the babies and father enters the room, his heart leaps. The most luscious dreams invade his sleep. His slit is constantly drenched.

Whether he's biologically ready or not, it is two weeks to the day of him growing up that father finally comes for him. 

It is early morning, and he has just woken up. The windows are too high for him to see out of, too thick to let in the sound of birdsong, but the light streams in and warms his bed. A lazily pleasurable feeling has suffused his body. Last night's dream is mostly faded but the impression of it remains.

The doorknob turns and just the sight of father's feet stepping through drives a painful spike of arousal through his sex. 

He pushes then kicks his blankets off and lifts his spread legs, presenting his already swollen cunt.

"It smells like a bitch in heat in here," father says, so deadpan that with anyone else, he wouldn't be able to tell if they were making fun or not. But he has never known father to joke.

He's never smelled anything, but this is his own room so he'd probably be nose-blind to it. As much of a fever as he's been in, the number of times he's jilled himself just to take an edge off, maybe there is a scent. The idea just make him pull his legs in closer. Yes, he's in heat.

Father gets up onto the edge of his bed, then walks over to him on his knees. One hand pulls at the button to his bulging fly.

His cock steadily pushes into him and it's so tight but it feels like heaven. Ismene whimpers in return, the pads of his fingers pressing deep into the meat of his biceps. His skin is tingling, hazy, throwing him sky-high. It doesn't hurt at all. He's so ready.

He's allowed a moment to exhale when father bottoms-out. Dewdrops of sweat glisten in his navel. Even still, father's cock feels good; tightening on it feels better than any orgasm he's ever had.

They fuck hard, mutually against each other, hips snapping and hands grasping, pulling. His cunt is blazing with the most wonderful feeling that travels through his entire body. He doesn't think he's come yet but it's hard to tell. It goes on for what feels like hours as father owns his body completely with his unforgettable cock. How can he possibly share him after this?

As good as he's been feeling, he recognizes the feeling swelling up his gut as the start of the end, a great tidal wave that scares him a little with its strength. But this will make him overflow. It has to.

Scary as it is, he embraces the feeling, and his entire pelvis fills with a pulsing warmth. Father stays still, the feel of his seed lost in his own sensations, and the pressure builds and releases. He relaxes into the pillows and wipes the sweat off his brow. His body quickly chills, allowing him to notice the puddle of wet under his butt.

Father carefully pulls out, and leans back. His nose wrinkles, but he's smiling, as much as he ever does. "You made a mess."

Ismene props himself on his elbows, then wrists, one by one on his shakey arms. "I did?" His thighs are a little bedewed, but there's a dark soppy stain from beneath his seat to nearly three feet away. "Yay!" A sense of satisfaction fills him. He grins. "I did! Thank you for helping!"

Father shakes his head a little and curls up with him... on the far side of the bed. 

A few times more throughout the morning they breed and by the time they are famished enough to get breakfast, Ismene is so full of semen it drips down his thighs as he walks. It's no big deal though, when father is so attentive to him. They more than make up for what was lost.

By night they have migrated to some other bed and sex is slower and gentler, from tired muscles and all the places rubbed raw. His pussy is so overstimulated by this point just having it in makes his eyes cross. But father is so tired he gets to be on top and can't miss the chance, even if it almost does feel like self-inflicted torture.

After he's been filled again he collapses against his chest, and father gently strokes out the knots in his hair. The closeness he feels makes his throat ache with tears.

He is exactly where he needs to be. Safe and loved.


	2. Chapter 2

Ismene waits desperately until his month-long restriction is over. He knows conceiving very soon after childbirth is improbable, and it's for his own safety anyway, but he loves breeding as much as he loves getting fucked. He's even good at it.

Two years have passed since father took his virginity and simultaneously impregnated him. He's been pregnant once each year, but has already outperformed many of his elders. Twins the first, triplets the second, and due to his young years so small that being so gravid left him immobile. It was nice, though. Father took him to a special man to be looked over as his belly grew, and called his womb a divine receptacle for his seed. His oldest siblings spoiled him with affection, and carried him wherever he liked on cushions and silken sheets. The babies played at his feet as he indulgently watched.

It felt like being some kind of figure of fertility.

He had been almost despondent about the end of his first pregnancy. It was a lot of pushing and pain to end nine months of being inconvenienced at worst (he only knew morning sickness even existed from hearing others trade horror stories) and the end of his being special.

Seeing his sons' faces cheered him slightly; they look just like their father, in chubby baby form. Both with the right parts, thankfully. He wasn't sure if he could deal with losing one so soon. It'd make him look bad.

At least he could count on father to comfort him with more babies... he thought, then had a waiting period thrown at him. He'd been so upset he threw a tantrum, then found himself on the floor, half of his face suddenly flaring.

He should have known better. Father had so many cunts to keep bred he only had sex to procreate. He wasn't asking for his seed though, any other attention would have done just as well. But maybe even his time was too precious.

Ismene rolled over on the marble, and cried a little onto his forearms. If he was still pregnant, father would have been too concerned with him miscarrying to hit him. He thought some very awful things about his babies dying for a moment, then felt bad. It wasn't their fault.

He decided to be a good boy. He'd wait.

On the morning of the thirty-second day, he went to father where he slept with an older brother and climbed in. Father's morning wood stood stiff and waiting for some slick pussy to knock up... his pussy, given his way. 

He lowered himself onto it, slow and gentle to luxuriate in the sensation of being spread open by father's fat cockhead. The rest of the shaft followed suit, filling him up from top to bottom. It feels fulfilling to finally be full of virile man again.

"You may be prone to multiples," father mutters, eyes still closed. "Or just a coincidence. Either way. You accept?" There's no sentiment to the question. What he's really asking is whether he's healthy enough to.

"Yes," Ismene says, without a second's hesitation. "I want your seed, father. I want to have your baby again. Knock up my pussy, father, breed me, my cunt needs it--"

he squeals happily when father flips him over.

He felt so happy, so _alive_ as father bred him again, and in breeding him, gave him his life's purpose. As he moaned and wriggled his way through orgasm after orgasm, he knew he would kill himself the day father moved on from him. There would be no point in continuing past that.

If he had been doted on before, he was positively spoiled after this. He was one of only two others to bear triplets, and the youngest. Father became nearly affectionate in his indulgence. He even took Ismene out into a screened patio for fresh air, when the movement and chatter of all his siblings made him faint. Sometimes there were books. Ismene was very nearly illiterate, but the pictures were pretty. Once he'd have been content making things up, but he wanted to know the actual story behind them. Father read one story for every outing, and gradually he learned.

The special man came by weekly to look him over. Each time he pronounced him fit as a fiddle, and after he left, father told Ismene with quiet pride what a strong boy he was.

His chest glowed with love.

The labor and birthing went through without a hitch. Three boys, three little cunts, slightly underweight but otherwise healthy. They cried immediately, with a lustiness that made his ears ring. He did his best to hold them but they're too big for his arms. One lay on his chest, crowding his lungs. 

Seeing them culminated in the most amazing feeling of satisfaction. He made them, bore them, birthed them. Already he can't wait to try again. He's going to be the very best breeder father has.

The month of waiting he has ahead of him makes him thirsty. Father has even implied abstinence longer than that, to fully recuperate.

It's part of taking care of himself. No, maintaining. Like his body is some manner of breeding machine. Thinking of it that way makes it a little easier. He'd feel so ashamed of himself if he died during his pregnancy.

Things are so exciting for a while it ends up not being much of a hassle. Father spends more time with him, with different books. Math, history, geography. They are subjects so unfamiliar to him that they aren't much different from his fairytales. But father wants him to learn, so he learns.

Sometimes a man sits in to watch. It doesn't bother him. He's used to ignoring strangers.

Two months pass before the novelty wears off. And surely by now he can have another baby.

Father listens to his pleas with an expression of rare amusement. "I've another plan for you."

Father takes him from the wing of suites he has spent all but a few passing minutes of his life. It all looks the same as what he's known, the cool marble and style of furnishings, but he still looks around. He doesn't bother guessing what is in store for him.

They come to a room after what feels a great deal of walking. He hadn't known how big the house they live in is.

It's the sitting room for someone's bedroom. The furnishings are more lavish, but maybe that's to be expected without babies and kids around. The man is here, the one he has never spoken to. He stands from his desk when they enter, and folds his hands behind his back.

Father leans down over Ismene, and speaks against the side of his head in a quiet, explanatory voice. "Your uncle, in a manner of speaking. Though I believe you all refer to each other as brother regardless of exact relation."

"Brother?" Ismene looks over the man with interest, not minding his looking back. There is a resemblance to father. His face and eyes are softer, but he's not as pretty as some of his other siblings. "I've never seen him before."

"You wouldn't. He was raised separately."

Father leads him to the couch with his hand on his shoulder. Then, before he decide whether he's supposed to sit, father lifts him up and sets him back down onto his lap. 

"A likely enough boy. What do you say?"

The man approaches slowly. His head tilts. "Ismene, is it?"

Father answers for him. "Yes. A pretty name."

"For a pretty child." He touches Ismene's hair, then cheek, in slow strokes that are more testing than affectionate. His face is expressionless except his brows slightly knitted in concentration. "And he learns quickly. How is his temperament?"

"Eager to please, but spoilt. I think he'll train out of it." 

The man sticks his fingers in his mouth and pries his teeth apart. Some flowery taste makes the back of his throat try to heave. It grows stronger as his teeth are tapped against, from the front to the back. Must be cologne on his wrists.

"Good teeth. Still a few milk left. How are the rest with their wisdom teeth?"

"Most grow into them fine."

Ismene daydreams. His new brother isn't that interesting, nor is what they're discussing. They poke and prod him all over and talk about his medical history, and general health. He only starts paying attention again when they talk about his babies.

"Five by... twelve years old? Exemplary. And he carries well."

"He's been very fertile. Some of them take an entire year, if not longer, just for a singleton. I can only imagine how productive his prime years will be."

"This isn't his prime?"

They laugh together. Ismene wonders for the first time what the purpose of all this is. He feels too small as he peers up between them.

Neither of them speak to or explain anything to him. After what has been at least half an hour, father and his unknown brother say their goodbyes to each other. He's too busy thinking to do his part; his brother barely looks at him anyway.

Will father say anything even if he asks? Maybe it's fine to be a little curious.

"What's his name?" he asks, back out in the hallway.

"Doesn't matter," father answers, walking off without a moment's pause. Ismene hurries to keep pace. Their walk this time is much shorter. Just a door down, in fact. "You'll be marrying him in a month's time. Until then you'll stay here..."

His mouth dries. He does not know exactly what marriage is, or what it means, except that many of his fairytales end in it. The princess marries the prince and leaves her family and home behind. It's the same way even in the history he's read. "What about... home?"

The door opens to another big, pretty suite. Big, and lonely. Father looks at him impassively. "You don't need to go to the harem wing anymore." He pauses, disgust curdling his features as Ismene's mouth wobbles uncontrollably. Thankfully tears make it hard to see clearly. "You're going to be a princess soon. It's a far better thing to be than a bastard." 

His hand flattens over his back and shoves him into the room. "Especially as incest-bred as you are." The door slams shut after him. The lock clicks.

Ismene collapses against it and sobs his aching heart out. It feels like there's a bottomless well of grief that suddenly opened up inside him. He won't get to see any of his siblings again. His other parent. His childhood bed, and toys... that he'll spend his first night of many other nights in a strange room is unbearable.

Eventually he exhausts himself and curls up to sleep.

The doorknob wakes him in the morning with a rattle. He sits up warily as a maid enters with a breakfast tray. Neither of them speak to or look at each other. It's so ingrained on his part that he doesn't consider asking anything of her.

His heart still pangs dully. He longs to be back home. There he had been adored and admired, had had a place. Here... what is he here? A stranger among strangers. He doesn't even know who his spouse-to-be is.

Once the maid is gone, he nibbles on a piece of toast and explores a little. There are books and games put away, either for his use or just part of the furniture. It looks on the whole more like his brother's room than his own. The canopied bed impresses him before he remembers the misery of his situation. The rest of his toast gets crumbled into the carpet.

He sees no one but his maid and father for the next month, throughout which period of time he learns of an obnoxious thing called 'etiquette'. Suddenly he's getting his hand smacked for grabbing at food, or a smack on the ass for standing at anything less than perfect attention.

His brother sees him again at the end of it. "How is my little princess coming along?"

"I wouldn't take him abroad," father says, "but his youth will work in his favor here."

His brother strokes his hair, in that same strange, testing way as before. "You won't embarrass me, will you, Ismene?"

Ismene half-heartedly shrugs and averts his eyes. Looking at the reason he's been displaced makes his chest ache. "I'll try, but I'm not a princess."

"That's fine." His fingertips glaze over his cheek, slipping down before the thumbs press into his jaw. The insistent pressure makes him turn his head back. "I don't need a wise queen, a politicker, or my manipulator in the shadows. All I need is a passably genteel womb to bear an heir and other children for marrying off."

"I don't know about being--gentle--but I can make babies." He looks up as appealingly as he can. He hopes what he had first noticed about this man is true; the relative softness of his expression compared to father. Even his hair is lighter, like a blonde halo around his head. "I can make all the babies you want, if... if I can just go home sometimes."

"That place isn't for you anymore," he says, but there's a catch to his voice father wouldn't have had. "Your home is with me."

"You came from there too," Ismene replies lightly, to keep from sounding too smart-alecky. "Don't you ever wanna see your mama?"

“Ismene,” father says warningly, but he doesn’t miss the way his new brother’s eyes flicker away. 

So Ismene bows his head obediently. No matter where he was raised, his brother is still family, and must want the same things they all do. To be with each other. To breed. Surely father and his brother have fucked, even without the ability to make a baby. It’s in their blood.

It’s why they’re being paired together. They belong, are the same, like the thick royal blood that runs through their veins. Waiting to be thickened and purified once more. The idea of that multiplication is a little exciting.

“Can’t I at least know my fiancé’s name?” He’s not sure he’s said it right, only seeing it written, but his brother gives him a surprised look.

“Antonis.”

His brother leaves shortly after, but he feels reassured. Father is a stubborn man, but his husband-to-be is essentially one of them, right? Of course he wants to go back too.

In another month, he is deemed fit for his public debut.

All his life he has gone barefoot and worn slips. There are so many of them and they grow so fast, there’s no need for anything else. This evening the maid dresses him in black tights, several layers of flouncy underthings, and a heavy velvet gown the same color as the early morning sky. Threads of gold and gems twinkle at the hem. Stiff slippers in the same shade of blue are placed on his tender feet.

Father comes by to hem and haw over him, adding and taking off jewelry ("your face is too awkward and infantile" he gripes) then has the maid tie his hair back five different ways. He can feel how nervous she is. Her fingers quiver against his scalp, and they pull so tightly his roots burn. Eventually father settles on his hair being plaited back into a bun, and clips diamond chips to his earlobes. 

Ismene tries to sit still and be good, but it's difficult when they keep fussing with him, in this tense atmosphere. If he didn't know otherwise, he'd suppose he was going off to be married now. Just as he thinks he's finished, father takes his chin between his fingers and tilts his face every which way to look at him. "A little make-up," he says finally. "Don't whore him up."

He is made to sit on a stool and tries to ignore the look on the maid's face as she puts strange, smelly powders on his face that tickle his nose. Her eyes are dry but wide and white, like a scared horse. Father calls her efforts 'acceptable' before dismissing her. The powders feel like they're clogging up his skin, but he is somewhat curious how he looks. Father does not offer him a mirror.

Dinner is less stressful than he thought it would be. There are whole tables of people who stare, tables that seem to stretch on forever, but they are there, and he eats at a smaller separate one in front with father and his brother. All their looks coming from one direction don't mean much. He can stare back.

By the time dinner arrives, he's too awed by the presentation and concerned with his newly-learned table manners to bother thinking of them at all. Father sits in the middle, and occasionally squeezes his knee. It feels like a comforting 'good job!' then it starts wandering up his leg. He has to try very hard not to outwardly react when his fingers come down on top his vulva, fingers bearing down on the layers of cotton and velvet in between. It's a mean, teasing thing to do, as alone as he's been leaving him lately.

Another week goes on and the preparations start. Sometimes he is taken outside, again, he feels, just to be looked at. And they do, almost like they can't help themselves. For once he feels a little conscious of what he is. The world outside the one he knew does not breed as they did. What kind of abnormality does he seem to them? It's enough to make him look forward to marriage so he can not only get back to the thing he's good at, but hopefully obtain a level of isolation again.

On the morning of he is dressed in a flouncy dress, light blue (powder-blue, he thinks as his waist is cinched into it, though he has never seen blue powder), made of silk too warm for the weather, and resplendent froths of itchy lace. Curls and hairpins are set in his hair until his entire head feels poked and pulled raw, and for the first time he is shown how to wear a garter belt. It itches too. Even the trimming of his panties itch. Funny that something that looks so delicate could be so irritating. Father tells him he's just being fussy, but he's not the one with this stuff all over his tender bits.

A cloud of intensely floral perfume finishes it off. No make-up, father decides, while smearing rouge onto his lip with his thumb. "He's too delicate."

There is a mirror this time, that Ismene catches looks at himself with, though he believes it's more for their benefit than his, as much as they keep turning him around and staring at it. He barely recognizes himself; he looks like a picture in a book, not a real person. His face is in full bloom from anxiety and exertion, but his reddened lips give him a more 'prettily flushed' look than a harried one.

Father kisses the top of his head, takes his hand, and leads him out. 

They walk down the hall from the dressing room, onto an outside porch. The cool breeze makes him feel at least a little cooler, if not less nervous. Father leads him down the steps. Maids and butlers on either side bow their heads; each carries a small bouquet of what looks to him like purple lilies. A vegetal, bitter scent fills the air, separate from the greenery of the lawn.

The area around them appears to be a garden. In his fairytales, they usually come into play as areas where the hero took something he shouldn't have. Looking around him, he doesn't see how anyone could help it. Seats sit around tinkling fountains shaped like half-fish people. Mermaids! Little stone fairies and animals accompany lavish flowers bursting with colors--sunbursts, riots, smears of color that almost bewilder him. They hurt his eyes. If only, if only... he could go back home. It's pretty out here in the world, but it isn't where he's supposed to be.

They arrive at a small house of some kind, with a bell set in it. Too small to be a clock tower, he thinks doubtfully. Father has to let go of his hand to pull open the stone door. It opens like a groaning eye... or a maw. Chill air rises off the brickwork. Even in his layers, he wants to shiver. Father slowly closes it behind them but even so, it groans and its settling into place rumbles.

There's no one here but him, father, brother, and a stranger. The stranger means nothing to him, but he's glad to see his brother is all dressed-up and slightly awkward looking too. His is a suit, though; not a bit of lace, he notes with an internal pout. The ruffles along the front actually look soft.

Father pushes him forward. He goes to stand by his brother. Antonis. His husband-to-be, and the king-to-be.

Making him the queen-to-be. He shivers.

"It's chilly," Antonis whispers as the stranger starts on some kind of vow. 

Ismene nods. A creak goes through his spine. He would rather pay attention, but the stranger's voice is dusty and sparks no love in him. It's nothing next to the subtle echoing off the walls of father's breathing, or each little following-along nod of his brother's head, and the slithering of his body somewhere in that suit, fabric on skin. Once this is over, he'll get to see him under there.

Finally they kiss. Brother's mouth is hard as teak but the inside is sweet. Father does not often kiss him but the experience is similar. It lights a warm, mushy glow in his belly. Anticipation. It's been so long for him and finally he is returning to something he knows.

The door groans again as father opens it. Brother picks Ismene up easily despite the weight of his gown, and carries him out in his arms. The sunlight stings his eyes for a moment but he sees the double-line of servants down the path before them, and the flowers they now cast before their feet. Their stride does not pause or sidestep; brother walks straight over them, and the bitter smell grows even stronger with each bruised petal.

They go back inside the building and up several flights of stairs. Ismene does not exactly recognize where they are going, but he feels it in his chest. This is their wedding night, after all.

"You look beautiful," brother whispers into his hair. He can picture the shape of his mouth as he says it, hungry, ready to eat him up. "And all for me."

How does that make him feel? If it was this alone his happiness would be an uncomplicated one. As it is, he still thinks sadly of home. But now isn't a good time to bring it up again. If he is sweet and good, his new owner may be sweet to him in return. "Let's have a lot of babies, okay?"

They come to a slow stop in front of one of the suite doors. Brother shifts his weight onto one arm to open the door with the other. He pauses for a moment, and looks Ismene in the eye, the first he has done since before they were wed. "Your life's purpose is to bear my children. It does not ultimately matter, but... I am glad the process brings you happiness."

"We're married now," Ismene chides gently. "Don't speak so stiffly to me." 

"Sorry." Brother lays him down on the bed, his hands wandering tantalizingly beneath his dress. They brush against his garters (itchy, but this time the irritation feels like something else) before settling just above his knee. The layers of silk and lace are pulled up at the same area, so Ismene has no chance of _seeing_ his legs, but even in the stockings, they feel naked to the air. "Everyone has either been above my social position, or below it." He smiles wryly. "I've never had any sort of equal."

Any sort, because at the end of the day, they are not equal either. But Ismene does not mind being inferior if he can be happy. "Father is our father, and the king, but surely the bed is different." Probably not, but he just wants to dangle it out there to see what response he'll get.

Antonis' response is to look... sheepish? It's such an odd look it takes a moment to place it. "That's another thing, actually. There's no interest between us, and I've never been allowed to be with anyone else, so--"

"You've never done it?" He sits up on his elbows in respectful awe. How could anyone abstain so long from something so pleasurable? He's grown up knowing sex his entire life; it's as natural to him as breathing. "This is your first time."

"I know how it goes," brother replies, sounding a little peeved. Maybe by Ismene's reaction, or having to admit it, or that it hasn't happened for him. They are family, after all. Surely he must want father as much as the rest of them do. And how much worse! Ismene only had to suffer for ten years, and Antonis must be at least that much older than him. "But if there is some trick you know, either in general, or for yourself, I wouldn't be adverse... I mean, I'd like to know."

"Whatever my lord husband would like to do, he may." Ismene shakes his head slightly in deference, heart pounding like mad. All of them started so early he can't begin to think that they had ever been meaningfully virgins. "We have our entire life together." Antonis will only be virgin, or virgin-like, for so long, but he wants to feel that journey, and see how well they get to know each other. Telling him anything unnecessary will only muddy it.

Brother’s first move, by his own accord, is to grab the hem of his dress and pull it up... up... up, until the rest of the dress starts to follow. The weight of so much cloth is smothering but is continually stripped up off him, going slower still for the cinching around his waist. It gets shucked unceremoniously to the side as soon as it clears his head and he breathes deeply, finally free.

All he has on left are his panties and stockings. Brother looks at him the way he looks at a good meal. Ismene has certainly become more roast-like over the past two years; while young he has begun puberty, and his recent diet is richer than he's been used to. His belly is softer and less concave than it once was, his shoulders and hips ache from widening even when not carrying, and his thighs have thickened. All of the alterations are relative, of course; he is not not yet any word one might use to describe an adult body, but there's an obvious blueprint present of the adult he will someday be. It's a pretty good-looking one, if he does say so himself. And no one has ever told him otherwise.

His lord husband finds him delicious too. The heat between his legs intensifies, and it is with great reluctance he parts his thighs. He does not want to influence his brother into taking action, but he's so hot, and he'll have to touch him here eventually anyway.

Brother's hand glides up his leg, until the side presses into his vulva. His thighs twitch with the need to close, draw him tight and close. 

"Brother... Antonis..."

"I've only seen this part in schoolbooks before." He switches his hand over to the knuckles. A stronger sensation probes against the front of Ismene's covered slit, tracing lightly at first, then nearly digging. In no time the area is drenched in a wetland of slime, and Ismene sees what he feels, that his underwear is so drenched to him his clitty buds prominently against the fabric. 

_Everything_ is itching. "Do you wanna see it up close?"

"Want to," Antonis absently corrects. He presses his palm into his pubic mound and--god--he can just feel the slick being squeezed out of him. "It seems so small."

“I promise it’ll fit just fine.” The last two months of abstinence might make it more of a close fit than usual, but he took father as a virgin. Surely his brother can’t be any bigger. “Please, I...” His pussy is feeling so ready his thighs are trembling. Just a little more and he could go ahead and come, but he _needs_ his first with him to be while he’s all filled-up.

Antonis pulls his underwear down slowly, either out of care for him or the lace, and gives a low, appreciative whistle. “Father has everyone else in the harem, so this... is all mine now.”

‘This’, Ismene’s already eagerly parted slit, as red and puffy as if it had already been fucked, not just waiting in anticipation. Ismene tries to look at it like a virgin would, and it suddenly looks like a strange thing to him, but erotic in its strangeness. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect.” The bed whines as he climbs up above him. Probably not as big as father, but the bulge in his slacks looks promising. His fingers brush over Ismene’s bare mound (father’s idea; you’ll look younger and cuter this way) and press down the length of his lips, squishing and sliming everything together, and finally starts undoing his fly, leaving him burning with his touch on his skin everywhere except the best part.

His cock, when he takes it out, is already moist at the tip. A bit smaller, but not bad either, and the corona is more pronounced. Good for spreading him nice and open by his cervix, then pew-pew-pew! There’s no chance he won’t get pregnant.

Brother looks like he’s sizing him up, as his cockhead nudges against his entrance. “If you can bear a child, I suppose it’s alright.” He grabs him by the waist, their sizes so perfectly dissonant that his hands almost entirely circle above his hips. Between the weight of his body and his cock, it’s like a butterfly being pinned in two different places.

It feels just as filling as Ismene knew it would, though, which is nearly as satisfying as the look of concentration on his brother’s face. He can only imagine what having a cock feels like, something like the pleasure he feels but outside instead of in, and all so new and beautiful, it makes him happy to think about. He can’t wait until his brother spunks his first load in him.

"Does it feel good?" brother asks in a small, strained voice.

Ismene nods. "Does it feel good?"

"Yes." His pace keeps pausing, presumably to collect himself. One thrust, two, stop, breathe heavy, repeat--if he just got it over with, he'll probably last longer the next round.

But if this is how his virgin brother wants to fuck him, he'll happily accept. It feels good for him either way, whether there's movement or not. He has his cunt so spread open on him there's no escaping that feeling of being pinned. But maybe he wants to get him off first as a matter of pride; if Ismene had a cock, he supposes he might think like that. Especially when it comes to one's vastly more experienced little brother.

He wants to tell him it's alright, that he'll be a good wife no matter how early he comes, but Antonis is _just_ enough like their father that he doesn't think it would be appreciated. He keeps his mouth shut, but decides if that is the way it is, he can help things along a bit.

He tenses up along his inner thighs and belly in time with each thrust. It’s not the most satisfying way to get off, but it’ll help him without the risk of pushing Antonis off the edge first. The extra effort makes him sweat and itch but he manages to clamber his way up to a peak. And once he’s there, everything breaks open; his stress and loneliness over the past few months, the desire to please, and attraction to his new family member, the clumsy sex, all of it; crashing out as he shoots higher, higher, lower, then high again through more valleys than he can almost take. It’s so close to just being painful.

He’s barely come back down any for the last time, before brother is asking him if he liked it (sheepishly, like he knows the question is a bit dumb, but in situations they probably don’t make etiquette manuals for, you have to play it by ear). Their pelvises are pressed tight together, brother’s relaxed body weight even heavier on his hips. He must have come, and Ismene is slightly disappointed he wasn’t present enough to enjoy it. How much, he wonders, is the heat inside of him seed?

“You were amazing.” He reaches up to brush brother’s hair off his forehead, and is pleased to feel his hairline just as sweaty and hot as his own. “Do you want to do it again?”

“Can we?”

“As much as you want.” He manages a weak smile. “Making babies is hard work. You have to make sure I’m all filled-up.” It shouldn’t be that hard for a virgin, and he has a reputation to maintain. A new cause for worry niggles at the back of his mind though, that the reason he and father caught on so well was some biological compatibility. He and Antonis are still family, but what if it isn’t the same? Their line of blood is not as pure as father-son, grandfather-grandchild. They are some manner of brother and uncle-nephew.

“I see. Is that how father did it with you?”

“It’s how he did it with us all.” For once, he doesn’t want to think about father. That line of thought is just adding to his anxiety. All he knows to ease it is with sex. And not only is it distracting, it’s pro-active. “I mean, that is what you want, right? To get me pregnant?”

Brother pulls out and sits back on his heels. His cock glazed with come, and still half-hard. He looks him up and down not like he’s looking at a person, but at a piece of meat. “It’s what you were born for.”

They both fulfill their purpose several times over during the evening and night. For their kingdom, for their country, most of all, for their father. Antonis takes him in every position they can think of, and no piece of furniture is left unchristened. Ismene has his first ‘real’ orgasm following his brother’s fourth load in his cunt, and never quite measures up to his excitability—a first in his sexual life—but finds each sowing of life inside him satisfying enough. It’s what he’s made for, whether he comes or not. And he sees potential here. Brother’s cock is big enough that he squirms around it even into the the twilight hours, and he takes initiative with his body, sucking his nipples one hour, stroking his pussy the next, then finally sitting below him to eat him out until he wets all over his face.

By the time the new day starts, neither has slept for more than an hour at a time.

Father comes to see them with breakfast on a tray. “How fare the newlyweds?”

Brother makes a face that looks like an attempt at a beam. “He’s a sweeter fruit than I could have ever dared hope for, father. The little minx has scratched me up.”

So he left a few nicks here and there. He’s bearing a few bruises of his own. Past a certain point of stimulation it was just too hard to keep his fingers relaxed. “My husband has been very good to me. I know I’ll carry soon.”

Father looks at him with a strange expression. It looks familiar, like he should be able to place it, and would on anyone else’s face. But it’s not a way father has ever looked before. “No doubt. I’m going to miss having your womb all to myself.”

 

Life outside his childhood suite becomes only a larger version of it. He goes nowhere outside his room without being on his father’s or brother’s arm. He eats politely and bows when strange men come to visit, but no stranger talks to him, or wants anything of him. Rather, he can feel the fear they have around him, and the contempt beneath. It’s fine. He grew up on family, and can keep living on it, and making more of them. Brother sometimes leads him away into back halls just to blow a quick load in his cunt, and every night they are preoccupied with each other. Father continues going to the harem to see to his needs, but he sees him far more often than he used to.

His belly slowly becomes rounded. They nervously hold off celebrating at first, in case he’s gaining weight on the new diet of rich food, but it gets rounder and rounder, while the rest of him stays relatively svelte. Three months since their wedding night, he is officially declared pregnant.

Brother gets tipsy on wine in what is mostly a private celebration. He coos over his belly with more warmth than he has ever treated him with, but it is his firstborn after all. Ismene humors him through his questions; can you tell yet how many there will be? what will we name them? do you suppose mating with an inbred relative makes the child more or less inbred than mating with your own father?

Not yet. It’s fun naming them, like pets, but you can do what you like. Does it matter, when I’m so inbred either way?

Antonis’ eyes sparkle, like the alcohol is filling him up to his brain. “You’ve been so good for me and father is sleeping off his vodka... if you promise not to tell, I’ll take you to see the harem.”

A sharp inhale, then “I promise I promise I _promise_ ,” somehow around his heart beating tight in his throat. His arms go around his neck so tight he could just about pop his head off.

He tries not to think about what father would say if he saw them creeping out of his room like this. The promise and what is represents is bleak enough a reminder. Even some of brother’s drunken cheer dissipates as they travel in reverse the path he took that seems so long ago now. It hasn’t even been a whole year yet. But it feels almost like a rewind in his head. He should be back and with them. He belongs here, but he belonged there first. He comforts himself with thinking maybe it could happen, if not now, then someday. Knowing he’ll have to say goodbye again tonight hurts too much.

Brother unlocks the door with a key from his pocket. The memories come back so strong they fill his eyes. The same worn carpet under his feet, to protect dumb baby heads. Quiet here at the entrance, where they aren’t exactly disallowed from being, but frowned upon, noises from deep within. Moaning, laughter, scolding, crying. The smell of milk and heat. 

Brother follows him this time, hand in his, to be led. Ismene thinks of his old room, and the one he used to share with his other parent. Someone has probably taken over his bedroom by now, but the older members are pretty well settled into their places.

If he wants to come back again, he should give his brother incentive to do the same. “Do you know who gave birth to you?”

“Birth?” brother repeats distantly, like he’s contemplating for the first time he hadn’t sprung from father whole. “No, not really. I never come here. The eldest of his brothers... that’s all I know.”

Well, he doesn’t think of it in those terms exactly, but he knows who the eldest person among them is.

They walk down the lit halls together, past room after room and dozens of goggle-eyed toddlers and little twerps. A storm of whispering starts up behind them, and doors slowly open. But they have been taught well. Even if they recognize him in his silken gown and peal-beaded slippers, none of them stop or speak to them. Brother’s hand tightens on his, but he doubts entirely they’d ever say anything to father. He’s more like some divine figure that comes by occasionally to knock you up than a human you can talk to.

Finally they come to the right door, one priviledged enough to be close to the baths. A green line from a marker is faded out around knee-height. He’d been put in time-out all evening for that one. 

“You won’t knock?” brother whispers, when he sees him grab the handle.

Ismene shakes his head. “That’s not how things are here.”

It really is as easy as walking in. If father’s parents had ever valued their privacy, they’ve learned to let it go by now. The lump in the bed stirs when they walk in but doesn’t sit up to see who it is, or even ask.

“It’s me,” he says, and that does it, sure enough. Father’s eldest little brother... it’s strange to think of him like that, rather than just ‘uncle’. He jolts right up, looking at Ismene with something between alarm and relief, then alarm again, seeing the man next to him.

For a moment he looks so old and vulnerable. Perhaps it’s the cost of seeing him with an outsider’s eye. Or maybe he only started to change after Ismene left. The worry lines are etched deep around his eyes and mouth, and his lion’s mane of golden hair is twinkling with silver. Even the way he pulls his blankets up to his shoulders looks feeble. “Is that really you, Ismene? Who is this?”

“I’m sorry, uncle. Have you been worrying about me?” He hadn’t really thought how his disappearance might have seemed to them. “I’m fine! I’m a princess now. And this,” bowing slightly in the direction of his spouse, “is my husband. Your son.”

Uncle’s mouth falls open, but he gets out of the blankets and comes around the bed. “It can’t be. I know he kept one, but... Antony? Spell it.”

Brother looks uncertainly between them. Ismene shrugs. 

“Oh, now I _know_ it’s really you,” uncle says coldly once he’s finished. “He knows I hate that silent s bullshit.” But he runs his fingers through his son’s hair, and stands on his tip-toes to kiss his forehead. “My love, I never thought I’d see you again. What a handsome man you’ve come to be.”

Brother’s fingers twitch at his sides. “And you’re very... handsome as well, father.”

“Don’t call me that. That’s what you’ve all always called him—I suppose he’s why you two are married?” 

Ismene nods and giggles as hands descend on him next, pinching his cheeks, fluffing his hair, and rubbing into his scalp behind the ears. “For a while now, uncle.”

Uncle stops mauling his head to look disapprovingly down at his belly. “Didn’t take long, did you?”

“You _know_ I don’t take much, uncle,” Ismene says quickly. Brother has nothing to add, but what he can see of his face from the side turns bright red. “And you know when father wants you to do something...”

“Yes, yes, I know.” He comes to a stop. Energy gone, he looks the same as he had when they first came in. “He doesn’t know you’re here.”

“No, but—I missed you all so much!” He can already sense where this is going, and doesn’t like it one bit. He tries to snuggle up against him, so he can beg and hug and plead, and at least feel his warmth if he can’t stay, but he keeps him back by the shoulders.

“You think you know what he is, but you don’t really,” uncle sadly reprimands. “You won’t until it’s too late. No need to go begging for it, either. You shouldn’t have come.”

He kisses his cheek—the last one he’ll feel, he thinks despairingly, and Ismene cries tears he thought he’d run all out of for his home. Somewhat embarrassed, he tries to knuckle them out of his eyes and still his trembling lip while uncle and brother say goodbye. Another kiss from uncle, and this time, brother returns it with a big, improper squeeze of a hug. Uncle’s arms tighten around his neck, and far too short a time passes. Both for them, and for whatever Ismene can properly call his dignity.

Antonis picks him up to carry him out, which is just as well because his vision won’t clear despite his best efforts, and it feels nice to surrender himself against his brother’s broad body. Once they are outside, and he leans against the door to lock it back up, he murmurs that they will be back someday, once father has passed, as even a man like him must one day.

Ismene nods and sniffles into his neck. Anyone else might be angry or betrayed by this waylaying of responsibility and returning home, but he understands. They are both their father’s children.

 

Their life settles back into its groove. In public they are still the prince and his strange, quiet little bride, and in private, away from father’s eyes, closer than Ismene had expected from where they started. Like a normal married couple, maybe. In the late of night they share their worries and hopes about the future. Antonis cries at the birth of his children, fraternal twin boys with a penis and vulva between them, and even harder when they are alone as father already draws his plans for sending the latter off to be promised to some other little boy.

They don’t bed together for a time after that. Antonis, it seems to Ismene, has not truly understood until now what being family means. It’s hard to win him over, and when he does, it’s as much the desire to propagate as lust for him that has him trying desperately to breed him again. It doesn’t take long. It never has, and this time, his belly promises to be even bigger than before.

In a corner of his heart he hopes father might choke on his steak, but the fancy is only that. He knows his place, and will stay in it until he has a new master.


End file.
